Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  I wondered why she hadn’t told me about Bennet and Varenka. “It must be hard for Shelly,” I said, “dating a manager from the men’s team.”

  If Jessie was puzzled by my abrupt change of topics, she didn’t show it. “Roshaun couldn’t stand DeVoster.” She glanced at Bly and lowered her voice. “None of the managers could. He treated them all like peons.”

  Shelly abandoned the ball cart and snagged a rebound for a hapless free thrower.

  “Besides,” Jessie said. “Shell is totally devoted to our team—especially to V. They played high school ball together.”

  I thought about Shelly’s resistance when I asked about her playing days. “Did she ever have a chance of playing for Iowa?”

  “The way I hear it, all she had going for her was her height. That can get you by in high school, but not in Div. I.”

  Shelly grabbed another rebound. Her wingspan was the longest in the arena.

  “Too bad,” I said.

  “Shell doesn’t mind. She’s all about managing. When she first became a manager, she vowed never to shoot again because it wasn’t her job any more. That’s what Win said anyway.” Jessie shook her head in disbelief.

  “Is Win your closest friend on the team?” I asked.

  Jessie raised her arms over her head and folded herself over her legs, stretching.

  I wished I could see her face. “I couldn’t help noticing in the locker room,” I said. “There’s some tension between you and some of your teammates.”

  She sat back up. “They’re just jealous.”

  I doubted that Win was jealous, but I let it go. “What about the freshmen who left?” I asked. “Were you close to any of them?”

  Jessie rolled her eyes. “They were totally small-town. One of them was homesick even though she lived like half an hour away.”

  “Where was she from?” I tried to keep the eagerness out of my voice. It would be great if I could get the freshmen’s names and hometowns without having to research online or ask Orchid.

  “Atalissa,” Jessie said. “Population 203.”

  Since I hail from a small town—albeit not that small—such jabs usually piss me off. But I was on a mission. “Which one is from there?” I asked as if I knew all the freshmen on a first-name basis.

  “Gina Hofmeyer. She was a decent point guard. Would have learned a lot from Win if she’d stayed.”

  Another couple questions, and I knew the names and hometowns of the other two freshmen. “Why’d they leave?”

  “Stupidity.”

  As I waited for her to offer another reason, I felt someone watching us. Eldon Bly.

  “They were homesick,” Jessie said. “Upset about what happened to V.” Her explanation sounded reasonable, but her eyes darted around the arena.

  Maybe she found Bly’s stare as unnerving as I did. “Your teammates didn’t seem to want to talk about the freshmen,” I said.

  “They bailed on us.” Jessie stood and stretched her arms behind her.

  I stood too, the top of my head barely reaching her shoulders. I thought about how she’d nearly shoved DeVoster during the season opener. Was she strong enough to choke him, to make all those bruises? My stomach knotted. I looked away from her, trying to regain my composure.

  Bly was still watching us.

  “Let’s finish our conversation somewhere else,” I said.

  Jessie sprang up the stairs without answering, and I followed. When she stopped, we were nearly all the way to the top. “They look small now, don’t they?” she said, nodding at Bly and his boys.

  They did indeed, but I hadn’t winded myself simply for the view. “What do you think about Lexie Roth?”

  Jessie grinned. “I love the way she stuck it to DeVoster.”

  “Your teammates think she’s made things harder for Varenka.” I was also thinking about how hard she’d made it for Anne.

  “No way. The Daily Iowan is the only paper that’s taken V’s side.” Jessie took a sip of her water. “The others just go on and on about DeVoster—scholar athlete, all-American boy, sweeter than mom’s apple pie.” She stuck her finger in her mouth and made the universal gagging gesture. “Can we say purple prose? Can we say sexist?”

  The girl was born to rant.

  “Did you see today’s Press Citizen?” she asked.

  Before I could nod, she was off to the races. “The suspect’s gender is supposedly unknown, but they kept using female pronouns. She was seen running across the parking lot. She was over six feet tall. Let’s use the generic male pronoun unless we’re talking about the murder of a golden boy. Then it’s she, she, she. You don’t see that kind of sexism in Lexie’s writing.”

  “Who would have known about DeVoster’s running habits?” I asked.

  “Duh!” Jessie gestured to the court. “His teammates.”

  While she was feeling smug, I tried to catch her off guard. “What about recruiting? How has that been since the rape?”

  “Don’t ask me. I’m just a freshman.”

  She seemed to be trotting out her lowly status to avoid my question. “You were just recruited yourself. You must know something about it.”

  “Not from this end.”

  Nobody—not even this opinionated frosh—wanted to talk recruiting. It looked like I had two mysteries on my hands.

  Chapter Ten

  “Discretion is the better part of valor.” Vince waved his finger in my face as I pulled out of the McDonald’s parking lot.

  “You telling me to be discreet,” I said, “that’s rich.”

  He unwrapped his Big Mac. “I have no need for discretion, but you, my dear, you were on TV, immortalized with Anne and Orchid as Anne screamed that DeVoster was a rapist. Then Eldon Bly starts stalking you.”

  “He was just watching me at the arena.”

  “Wondering what you were up to,” Vince insisted.

  I braked at a stoplight, sorry I’d told him about Bly.

  “You could be in danger,” Vince said. “That’s why I’m sacrificing my Sunday afternoon. Someone needs to watch your back. Bridget shouldn’t expect you to do all this on your own. Not even for love.”

  My defogger couldn’t keep pace with Vince’s hot air, so I rubbed my hand against the window. “As long as you make yourself scarce when I’m trying to question people.”

  “Say no more,” Vince said. “I understand the delicate nature of your interviews.” He placed the fries within my reach. “While you talk with Varenka, I’ll canvas the rest of the apartments.”

  It was a good plan, but it appeared that the police had beaten us to it. There were two black-and-whites right in front of the building where Varenka lived. If they were indeed there for Varenka, then my sweet Anne was off the hook—for a while at least. I reached for some fries and tried to ignore my slowly mounting guilt. There I was, hoping that a young rape victim was being interrogated. It was official: I was a terrible person. Licking the salt off my fingers, I eased past the cop cars and looked for a parking spot. I was likelier to find nutritional value in my Happy Meal, but you can’t blame a girl for trying.

  Two Spandexed girls jogged past, laughing. One of them had Greek symbols on the back of her jacket. Varenka lived only a few blocks away from sorority row. Her building was one of those hideous boxy types where the second-story windows peek out of the oversize roof. The rest of the neighborhood was much like my own, mostly rundown Victorians that had been carved up into apartments. A canopy of bare tree branches gave the street an air of dignity. God save us from neighborhoods where the people are taller than the trees.

  Vince patted his mustache with a napkin. “I wonder how long our boys in blue will be.”

  My dashboard clock said 12:10. I pulled into a driveway, turned around, and headed back toward the cop cars. I’m not the world’s most patient person, but waiting for them to leave would be easy compared to interviewing Varenka. “I’ve never interviewed a rape victim before,” I said.

  “You’ve interviewed lots
of other people in painful situations,” Vince said, “and what’s more, you’ve observed Detective Olivia Benson on Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.”

  “My attention hasn’t been very focused on her interviewing techniques.” It felt good to smile. My grin broadened when not one, but two vehicles pulled out, leaving me a wide opening behind the cop cars.

  “You should park further away so they don’t see you or your car when they leave,” Vince said. “You don’t need them recalling your recent TV appearance or linking you with Varenka.”

  But it was too late. A pizza delivery car pulled within inches of my back bumper as three stern-faced cops exited Varenka’s building. One of them—a woman who looked no older than a college student—had gold sweats draped over her arm. They were wrapped in plastic, ready for the crime lab. The oldest cop, a bow-legged man, scanned the street.

  “Quick!” Vince reached into his coat pocket and extracted a pair of rhinestone-studded sunglasses. “Put these on.”

  I hesitated for a moment, but when the cop strode toward us, I traded my own glasses for Vince’s fashion mistake. The world blurred, and I accidentally knocked an open ketchup packet onto my thigh.

  The cop rapped on my window.

  My heart raced as I opened it. “Oh, Officer.” I giggled, hoping to seem like a dumb blond despite my red hair. “I hope I’m not blocking you, but something awful just happened. I was driving along, and I spilled on my brand new jeans.”

  I imagined him glancing at my thigh, dubious.

  “I know they don’t look new.” I grabbed a napkin and attacked the offending condiment. “That’s the point. They’re vintage. That’s why there’s this super cute rip on the left knee.”

  I’d literally left him speechless.

  “There’s also a really darling rip down by her calf,” Vince added.

  I went for my door as if I were eager to show him my leg in its entirety.

  “Stay in your car,” he said. “There’s no parking this side of the street today. You need to move on.”

  “Sure thing, Officer, right after I find my stain remover.” I batted my eyes. Sometimes my theatre major is worth every penny of the interest I pay on my student loans.

  * * *

  The stairs inside Varenka’s apartment building were covered with mud-stained carpet, and the dingy walls were riddled with scrape marks. On the top floor, someone was cooking with curry. I took a deep whiff and started checking the numbers against the addresses Shelly had given me. Jessie lived in 12 by herself. Win and Kate were in 5, and Varenka and Shelly, across the hall in 6. I paused outside Varenka’s door, hoping for a snatch of conversation, but all I heard was some music from down the hall. I knocked.

  Kate Timmens filled the doorway, remaining in position as I identified myself. “C-can I s-see some i-i-i...” Her face twisted and puckered as she tried to work through her stutter.

  “One ID,” I said, “coming right up.” I rifled through my backpack for my wallet and held it open for her.

  I wondered how many reporters she had turned away. She looked back and forth between my face and my driver’s license as if she were watching a tennis volley. Finally, I passed muster, and she stepped aside. Varenka was balled up in the couch, her blond hair streaming over her legs, her shoulders heaving.

  “Sh-she’s upset because the p-po-lee-leess...”

  “I saw them,” I said.

  “They had a search warrant.” Varenka raised her head slightly. Her eyes couldn’t have been any redder or puffier.

  “Did they find anything besides the sweats?” I asked.

  Varenka dropped her head back to her knees.

  Kate stood frozen near a table with slanted chrome legs. None of the chairs around it matched, and one of them looked like it belonged on a patio. Athletic scholarships did not preclude thrift shopping.

  I repeated my question, but neither girl stirred.

  “It must have been quite a shock to have your apartment searched,” I said.

  “Th-they found p-pepper spray in Varenka’s p-purse.”

  It was hardly surprising that a rape victim would carry a means of self-defense. “Did they take it with them?” I asked.

  Kate nodded, her long arms hanging helplessly at her sides.

  The cops probably had some way of telling whether the spray had been used. Not that it would prove anything if it had, but it would be a strong piece of circumstantial evidence against Varenka.

  She eased her head off her knees. “I wanted to try it out,” she said quietly. “To make sure I could really use it.”

  “M-most of us tried ours,” Kate added. “N-not just V-varenka. We had the w-wind behind us, j-just like Anne said.”

  There was Anne again, right in the thick of things, but at least it hadn’t been her place the cops had searched. “Do you think you could try to answer a few more of my questions?” I asked. “Both of you?”

  “You c-can talk to me first,” Kate said. “M-my apartment is across the hall.” She walked over to Varenka and rubbed her back. “She needs time to re-re-recover.”

  * * *

  Kate and Win’s apartment had the same thrift-shop ambience as their teammates’, minus the patio furniture. The far wall was covered with a beautiful quilt that spelled out IOWA HAWKEYES in a wild variety of fabrics.

  “W-win’s mom m-made that for me.” Kate was supposed to use it as a bedspread but she thought it was too pretty for sleeping. She was sorry about her stutter. It wasn’t usually this bad. Stress made it worse. Did I want some tea?

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but retreated to the kitchen alcove. I stepped away from it to give her some space and studied the knick-knacks atop a bookshelf. There were some miniature pumpkins and squash and some cutsey mice figurines. Next to the kitsch was a photo: Kate and Win, a huge Christmas tree, and a couple that had to be Kate’s parents. They both had her moosey build, and her father had Kate’s shy smile.

  She stepped into the living room and asked if I wanted cream or sugar. On or off the court, she wore her hair in a stubby ponytail at the nape of her neck.

  “Does your roommate always go home with you for the holidays?” I asked.

  “She stays with Shelly’s family s-sometimes.” Kate was back in the kitchen opening and closing cupboards.

  “What about Varenka’s?” I called.

  A drawer squeaked, but then there was silence. Something about my question had made Kate pause.

  “Does Win spend much time with Varenka’s family?” I asked.

  No answer. No kitchen sounds.

  “You and Varenka and Shelly are all from the same town, right?”

  “Y-yeah.” The teakettle went off for a couple seconds before Kate removed it from the heat. “Varenka’s p-parents work a lot of overtime at the p-packing plant.” Kate appeared with two steaming mugs. She handed me one and gestured for me to have a seat on the couch. “M-my mom and dad are teachers.”

  I perched on the edge and clasped my tea with both hands. Letting it warm my fingers, I inhaled the sweet scent of orange spice.

  “S-so is Shelly’s dad. He w-was our coach.”

  Kate set her drink on top of a Sports Illustrated and told me that Shelly’s mom was a radio announcer just like me—except that she never investigated any crimes. Kate would be happy to answer every single one of my questions so that I wouldn’t have to upset Varenka any more than she already was.

  “You and she were at her parents’ house the night DeVoster was killed?”

  Kate explained that Varenka was upset with her play in the opening game and needed to get of town. They borrowed Shelly’s car and left after practice on Friday. Just for the night because Kate had lots of homework she needed her computer for and she didn’t have a laptop. Did I know she was majoring in computer programming?

  “Who did you see while you were there—besides Varenka’s parents?”

  “N-no-nobody.”

  I sipped my tea. “You didn’t go out that eve
ning? Meet up with some old high school friends?”

  Varenka just wanted a quiet night with her parents. They had the night off, so the four of them played some cards.

  “What about when you arrived or you left? Maybe somebody saw you then. Somebody walking their dog or running an errand.”

  She didn’t remember anyone, and her stutter was getting worse.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “A neighbor will have seen Shelly’s car parked in the drive.”

  Kate gazed at the tea she hadn’t touched, probably thinking the same thing I was: no neighbor would have seen the car in the middle of the night. Varenka’s alibi was far from solid.

  “What about your own parents?” I asked. “Did they see Varenka?”

  They hadn’t even seen Kate. They were out of town, so she’d spent the night at Varenka’s where—after cards—she and Varenka and Varenka’s parents had stayed up past 3:00 watching old movies. Really old ones. The black and white kind. Varenka couldn’t sleep, but Kate had crashed during the trial scene in To Kill a Mockingbird. Had I ever seen that?

  Kate’s teammates had described her as quiet, but the girl was chatting up a storm with me. She was hiding something—I was sure of it—but if I asked her any more alibi-related questions, I’d lose any trust she’d placed in me. “What do you think about Tyler Bennet as a suspect?”

  Kate looked at me as if I’d just suggested we go drown a bag of kittens. “He’s one of the n-nicest guys on the team.”

  “I heard he used to date Varenka.”

  “They b-broke up last s-spring.”

  “Who broke it off?”

  Kate wasn’t sure, but there were no hard feelings. They hadn’t gone out that long—maybe like a year. Varenka and Tyler stayed friends—talking all the time, shooting hoops.

  When I asked if they still hung out after the rape, Kate sidestepped my question. Tyler would never hurt anybody—not even an animal like DeVoster. She’d never seen Tyler lose his temper—on or off the court. He took all the younger players under his wing, and he volunteered at some place like Big Brothers/Big Sisters, where he taught little kids to deal with their anger. Did that sound like a murderer?